


Unbreakable

by moonblossom



Series: Fluid Dynamics [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hand Job, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Simultaneous Orgasm, The Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The connection they've shared is a permanent bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbreakable

**Author's Note:**

> Immediately follows the events in [Drift Compatible](http://archiveofourown.org/works/893076).
> 
> Thanks to Nanners for looking this over.

"SHERLOCK!" John's voice carries, loud and clear, through the LOCCENT. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" His hands are trembling, whether from stress or adrenaline he isn't sure, and his helmet falls from his fingers with a clatter. Tendo Choi, usually so unflappable, is staring at Sherlock with undisguised panic on his face, and that alone is enough to freak John out.

"It worked, didn't it?!" Sherlock's voice is slick, defensive and unrepentant, muffled briefly as they work to get the armor plating off his drivesuit. Sherlock glances over at Raleigh, who is lurking behind Mako. The sight of him trying to cower behind the tiny woman would be hilarious to John if he wasn't so bloody upset. "If _he_ could do it" Sherlock nods at Raleigh again "then I knew I would be able to. And there's been no permanent damage, right?"

Marshall Pentecost storms into the room, composure masking his obvious fury. It's only because John has worked with him before that he's able to recognise it.

"Holmes. Watson. What the hell went down out there?"

John bites his lower lip. How the hell's he supposed to explain that he had a bloody panic attack out there and fell right out of the Drift, leaving his idiot newbie partner to pilot the stupid thing alone? He's trying to form this all into a coherent though that doesn't sound defensive, but Sherlock pipes up before he can speak. John cringes.

"After we neutralised the threat, my copilot was incapacitated due to factors beyond his control, and I had no choice but to steer the Jaeger back to base alone." It should sound matter-of-fact, phrased that way, but with Sherlock's cocky posture and rounded vowels, it sounds boastful. Which is exactly what Pentecost doesn't need to hear right now. John keeps silent.

"Holmes. This was your first mission out." It's not a question, but Sherlock nods smugly nonetheless.

"Are you out of your fuckin' mind?" Pentecost doesn't usually get so sweary in the LOCCENT, he saves that for private dressings-down, and John knows they're in trouble. "You're a smart kid." John notices Sherlock bristling at the epithet, but thankfully he keeps quiet. "You know why we have the Drift, why we have the dual-pilot system in place."

"Yes, but there's already a precedent for single-pilot control. Several, in fact. I figured it couldn't have been that complicated, especially for someone with an exceptionally advanced brain."

John can't take it anymore. He kicks Sherlock's ankle. They're still in their circuitry suits and he's got some reinforcement there, but John knows he feels it anyway. Mercifully, Sherlock shuts up before he can further diminish Pentecost's accomplishment.

The Marshall glares at the two of them, and John fights an internal war between standing at full attention and staring into the floor. How could he have freaked out like that? Sherlock's so different from Bill, both in physical stature and in composure, but after they'd torn the Kaiju to bits and Sherlock had grinned at him with such pride, such energy, it was as if John was right back in the Northumberland, seconds before Bill was ripped from him. He'd blanked, and woken up on the floor of the Conn-Pod with Sherlock crowing triumphantly over him.

"Get off my floor, the both of you." Pentecost turns away from them, the dismissal curt and perfunctory. "But don't think this is over. You're both undergoing full mental and physical workups before you get anywhere near the Baker Bee again. I don't care if we have an octuplet event and the entire world is crashing down around us. You are not to go out together again until you get this shit sorted out."

John's heart squeezes in his chest. He thought he'd been happy as a civilian, but this trip out, the bright sharp flood of adrenaline and the bone-deep connection to another human being just as flawed and amazing as he was... It had all reminded him where he _belonged_.

He steals a glance at Sherlock, who merely looks determined. "Come, John. We'll get this sorted out. They need us." He gestures imperiously with one hand and marches through the corridor, heading towards their quarters. John, despite his best efforts, watches Sherlock's stupid shapely arse in the circuitry suit as it recedes down the hall.

When they get to the sleeping quarters, John is so overwhelmed with adrenaline and fatigue that he's not entirely sure what he's doing anymore. He shoves his door open, barely noticing that it was unlocked, and looks around, confused. Sherlock's sitting on the bed, grinning at him.

John blinks and looks around. The room is a mess, piles of books everywhere, a violin on the single chair in the corner, and a human skull on the desk. He's reminded of Sherlock's bizarre little mental construction; that homey flat he saw the first time they Drifted. It takes him a second to realise he's marched straight into Sherlock's quarters, not his own. Fucking mental hangover. He shakes his head and stammers out an apology, but Sherlock brushes it away with a noncommittal grunt.

"I shouldn't be here, Sherlock. I'm still incredibly furious with you."

"Why? You don't seem like the kind of man who cares about being shown up. You care about results. We got results."

John breathes deeply, _in through the nose out through the mouth_. Tries to still his trembling hand before he does or says something stupid. It doesn't work.

"You could have died! You fucking idiot! The neural load from one of those things is way too much for even a veteran pilot to handle. That was your first fucking time out there. What possessed you?!" The words spill out of John's mouth in a furious torrent, but Sherlock remains unflappable.

"You were... busy." 

John scowls. That's a strangely polite way of saying _You were useless fucking dead weight_. 

"The Kaiju was dead, Sherlock. We could have just waited for the helicopters to get us out of there. You were showing off!"

Sherlock stands, stepping into John's space. It's alarming how huge his presence can be, but John stands his ground, shoulders stiff and square. There's a gleam in Sherlock's eye that John can't quite place. His head feels fuzzy, and suddenly he wants to grab Sherlock around the waist and kiss him.

That's the hangover talking. It has to be. John conveniently forgets the way he was thinking about Sherlock before they ever entered the Baker Bee.

"I was. I am a show-off. That's what we do." He's looming even closer now, lips right next to John's ear. John swallows, his throat dry and sticky. Sherlock's voice is reverberating deep into his marrow, and John knows fighting this is a lost cause. "Were you impressed, John?"

John giggles, and cringes. Why can't he have a proper, manly chuckle? "I was unconscious, Sherlock. Bit hard to be impressed when you have no clue what's going on around you."

Sherlock's laugh is everything John's isn't. Deep and throaty, and John's knees turn to jelly. He feels the warmth of Sherlock's hand, cupping the side of his throat, and knows he's gone. He tilts his head a fraction in silent invitation.

He gasps as Sherlock's lips find his, harsh and demanding. He leans back against the door for support, his bad shoulder digging into the unyielding metal. John's not sure if they're still connected or what, but Sherlock seems to realise and shift slightly, slipping his broad hand up under John's shoulder blade without ever relenting the assault on his mouth. Sherlock is sucking his tongue, nibbling his lips as if he wants to consume John whole, and John thinks he might just vibrate right out of his skin.

The expression on Sherlock's face when he finally pulls back for air is utterly disarming. His eyes are wild and fierce, his pupils widening and contracting steadily. For a panicked moment John wonders if the solo drift has already caused brain damage but he soon realises it's Sherlock's strange internal war with himself - desire and predatory control. 

"I want to make you _mine_ , John Watson. I've heard rumours. The way some pilots fall into a trap of fucking post-raid and barely speaking otherwise, the way other pilots basically end up like family. I want it all. I want you with me all the time. In the Jaeger, in my room, all of it."

Sherlock's left hand is still gently cradling John's back; his right is braced against the door, trapping John in place like an animal. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't bolt right now. Thankfully, he doesn't want to. Rather than replying, he tilts his head and drags his teeth across Sherlock's throat, right above the collar of his circuitry suit. This must have been the right thing to do, because Sherlock lets out an improbably high-pitched keen and digs his fingers into the tender flesh of John's shoulder.

The noise goes straight to John's cock and for a moment he's mortified; the suits leave so little to the imagination that if he gets hard it's going to be ridiculously obvious. But then the reality of what he's doing hits him, and that Sherlock is probably well on the way to a similar state. Unable to resist, John glances downwards, and his suspicions are confirmed. The front of Sherlock's suit is distended slightly, the outline of his burgeoning erection tantalisingly vague.

Hit with a wave of boldness, John stands up straight and presses his palms to the wide expanse of Sherlock's chest. Through the thin suit he can feel the broad muscles of Sherlock's chest, the rough nubs of his nipples, and the strong, unsteady pounding of his heart. Hungrily, John presses his lips against Sherlock's and pushes Sherlock backwards, one step at a time, until his calves crash into the edge of the mattress and Sherlock falls onto his back.

He gasps as he lands, and John bemoans the sudden loss of contact. He makes up for it by following Sherlock, falling onto his hands and knees on the bed. He tips forward, running his nose gently along the smooth line of Sherlock's jaw.

"So help me God, Sherlock, if you ever, ever pull another bone-headed stunt like piloting solo to impress me again, this is over. I can't lose you, not now."

It seems like a ridiculous declaration so early in their relationship - if that's even what this is - but John means every word of it. His connection to Sherlock out there was impossibly strong, entirely unbreakable, and to lose him now would kill John. He's certain of it.

Sherlock's composure has been well and thoroughly shattered, and he groans and bucks as John's tongue finds its way back into his mouth. John nips at his tongue, at his lips, eager to claim and possess every inch of Sherlock's body. His hands are stroking at nearly every part he can reach - the long expanse of Sherlock's forearms, the rippled muscle along his ribs, the planes of his abdomen, his long lean thighs - but studiously avoiding his swelling prick.

Apparently eager to give as good as he's getting, Sherlock grabs two handfuls of John's arse and John groans deeply. Sherlock's hands are large and agile, and John's never been manhandled quite this efficiently before. His cock throbs, steadily filling and distending, pulling the suit further away from his body.

"We should..." he pants, trying to make sense of his thoughts. "We should get out of these suits. Not sure the engineers would be too happy if we fried out all the circuits around the interfemoral arteries."

Sherlock's laugh is deep and delicious, and impulsively, John bites it away from his mouth. He feels Sherlock nodding against him and pulls away with a tiny pang of regret. Part of him wants to undress Sherlock slowly, like a present, but the circuitry suits are awkward and custom-fitted, and it'll be much more efficient for them just to strip. Next time, John promises to himself, he'll find Sherlock in his coverall, or in his pyjamas.

John stands, stepping away from the bed to give Sherlock some space, and writhes out of the suit. It's too late to go back now - he knows they're both completely naked underneath. Pants would interfere with the functionality of the circuits. Once he's stripped, John looks up, bashful for a fraction of a second, but the sight of Sherlock lying wanton and spread-eagled on the bed knocks the breath and the worry right out of him. He's long and lean, with a cock to match, nestled in a riot of dark curls strangely reminiscent of the ones on his head. If that image comes to the surface next time they Drift, Sherlock's going to have quite a laugh at John's expense.

He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling over Sherlock's supine form. Demanding, Sherlock grabs John's hips and tugs him downwards and John doesn't fight it. He lets his weight drop, bodies pressing together from collarbone to groin. John's thighs are pinning Sherlock's legs together, and it's causing all sorts of interesting friction where their cocks meet. Smirking impishly, Sherlock rocks his hips upwards.

As an unfortunately loud moan escapes John's lips, he feels Sherlock's fingers threading through the fine, fair hair at the base of his neck. Somehow it's more intimate than anything they've already done, and John feels as though there is an invisible thread pulling them closer. Like the Drift has stitched every bare inch of their skin together. He wants to crawl inside Sherlock and stay there forever. A panicked giggle bubbles up inside of him but it's as though Sherlock can feel it coming, and he cuts it off with another messy, filthy kiss.

John thrusts himself against Sherlock urgently and they lie there entangled for a couple of minutes, stroking and rubbing and grinding. Sherlock's fingers trail almost idly down John's back, the slow lazy movements at odds with the frantic pressure he knows they both feel elsewhere.

Sherlock presses the circle of his lips to John's throat and sucks hard, and John whimpers again. His cock twitches at the sensation, pressing against Sherlock's.

"Fuck, John. I can't..." John's never heard Sherlock swear like that before, and the sound is a jolt of adrenaline right to the base of his prick.

"God, Sherlock." He strokes the expanse of Sherlock's throat, sticky with sweat. "Want... ugh..."

"I know."

Sherlock strokes the back of John's calf with his foot, another strangely affectionate gesture, and John groans, burying his face in Sherlock's chest.

"In the drawer, next to-" Sherlock pants, "next to the bed. Bottle. Lubricant."

John smiles at the fragmented attempt at a sentence. He knows if he tried to talk more right now he'd be worse off than Sherlock is, so he just nods and reaches for the drawer. He grabs the bottle and makes to open it, but Sherlock snatches it out of his hand with far too much awareness and agility for a man who should be so distracted.

"Let me, John. Let me."

At this point he's certain he'd let Sherlock do anything he wanted, so John just nods again. He's got a sudden mental image of the two of them spooning, Sherlock's arm wrapped around his body. Sherlock's smile is lopsided and enthusiastic and John reels for a moment. Part of them is still connected. Without a word, he repositions himself on his side, next to Sherlock. Sherlock mumbles vague encouragements and rolls over, tucking himself neatly in behind John.

Sherlock's erection is blood-hot and rock-hard against John's arse, and he can't resist sliding himself against it a couple of times, feeling it nestle into the cleft between his cheeks. Sherlock makes no motion to push further; not this time, not yet.

The hand that wraps around John's cock is slick and warm and absolutely fucking perfect. He groans, throwing his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's strokes start out slow and thorough - fist wrapped tightly around the base, sliding the entire length of his shaft and rolling the foreskin up over the head before gently slipping it back down. John fights the urge to thrust his hips, to impatiently fuck the tight circle of Sherlock's hand.

He feels Sherlock's lips, soft and warm and damp, at the base of his skull, and tenses slightly. Each time Sherlock touches him, it feels more and more intimate. Every brush of skin forges another link in the connection between them.

John wants to reach around, to take care of Sherlock. His hips are still - his cock is nestled tightly between John's arse cheeks, but he's making no motion to thrust or move, to generate the friction John assumes he needs. He's oddly generous, scattering John's shoulders with licks and nips and soft little closed-mouth kisses. He worries at the scar, but in a way that makes John feel treasured. There's a trickle of moisture in John's eye, running down his cheek, that he manages to convince himself is just sweat.

All the while, Sherlock's strokes on John's cock are maddening. Slow and steady, more than enough to keep John disjointed and heady with arousal, but not enough to get him off. It's clever and calculated, the way Sherlock's got him suspended here, in the fulcrum of his hips and his hand.

He's tempted, but John refuses to beg. He's trembling slightly, muscles twitching as Sherlock continues his inexorable journey from the root to the tip of John's cock, over and over.

"Breathe, John." The words are the barest murmur, breath against skin, but enough to make John aware of the fact that he had been holding his breath in. He concentrates on gulping in air, on the insistent pressure of Sherlock's cock against his tailbone. Anything to draw his attention away from the slow torture of Sherlock's hand. When suddenly that hand stills. He's got two fingers forming a tight circle with his thumb, building pressure at the very base of John's cock as his other hand comes around to cup John's testicles. John can feel how warm they are, how hot and heavy.

All he wants is to feel them draw up close to him, to feel the release he so desperately needs. Eventually, he breaks, and he knows, knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this is what Sherlock has been waiting for. Somehow, Sherlock knows exactly what John needed.

"Pl... ngh..." he tosses his head back and forth, biting his lip. "Please, Sherlock."

That's all either of them needed. Sherlock digs his teeth into the soft skin at the nape of John's neck and pumps his fist vigorously. His other hand has slipped behind John's balls, two knuckles rubbing his perineum forcefully.

John cuts off a shout, his entire body quaking, hips rocking furiously into Sherlock's fist.

There's no buildup, no signal, the orgasm hits like a wall of water crashing over him. Sherlock flattens his hand, pressing John's spasming, jerking cock against his stomach, rivulets of come spilling out over the two of them. John's vision dims, his mind goes soft and blurry, but he's aware of a similar flood at the small of his back. Sherlock's come hard too, without moving. Perfectly simultaneous climax, brought on by the shared tension, brought on by the Drift.

John's heard of this happening. It's never happened to him, but then, he's never fucked a copilot before.

He can feel the muscles in his back rippling as his brain comes back down to meet his body. Sherlock's face is buried in John's neck, and he feels a trickle of warm liquid there. His first thought is that Sherlock bit hard enough to draw blood and John didn't notice through the haze of his orgasm, but there's no pain. Sweat then, it has to be. If John wasn't crying earlier, Sherlock's not crying now.

With a groan, Sherlock pulls away from John and rolls onto his back, and the rush of cold air flooding to his back is almost too much to bear. Sherlock, thankfully, places one strong hand on John's hip, as though he's not keen on complete separation either. John scrambles about, looking for a tissue. Eventually he dismisses it with a lost cause and wipes himself off with the corner of Sherlock's sheet. The sticky, drying ejaculate at the small of his back will have to wait.

Sherlock groans and tosses his free arm over his eyes, like he's trying to shield himself from something.

"You can have the shower first, if you like." The expression on Sherlock's face plainly says _I am making an enormous exception for you, and you should feel special._ John chuckles, about to take him up on his offer, when the sirens go off. Bloody Kaiju, their sense of timing is impeccable.

"Come on then." Sherlock sits up, already stretching into his circuitry suit.

"Weren't we supposed to go get checked out first?"

Sherlock's grin is as unrepentant as the one he flashed John before this all started. "They're going to need us, whether they admit it or not. Besides, this is more fun."

John, Heavens help him, just nods and pulls on his suit.


End file.
